


Any Given Thursday

by wandofhawthorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Infidelity, more infidelity, seriously lots and lots of cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandofhawthorn/pseuds/wandofhawthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a chance meeting at a muggle book club throws Draco and Hermione into an illicit affair, they must find a way to keep their secret before their worlds fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RZZMG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RZZMG/gifts).



> Written for the Otter & Ferret 2013 Challenge for RZZMG (which, wow, I'm incredibly intimidated because I love your stuff and I can't possibly hope to live up to you). 
> 
> Vaguely inspired by "The Way I Tend To Be" by Frank Turner: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVEMHtjHPrI.
> 
> Everything is beta'd, but please let me know if you see any errors.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

Hermione wasn’t sure how her life had come to this. Days filled with paperwork bled into silent evenings and the same blasted nightmares that had haunted her since the war. She told herself she should be thankful for everything she had—two beautiful children, a flourishing career, a loving, albeit increasingly distant, husband. Friends, family, respect. Everything she had wanted for herself as a child.

Her therapist started each session by asking for the first word that came to her mind. More often than not, it was “suffocating.”

A week after turning forty, she took the suggestion of “reconnecting with an old passion” and joined a muggle book club.

*~*

From the outside, Tate’s Bookshop was nothing more than a refurbished townhouse in the middle of Notting Hill, the small black and white sign the only indication it was a bookshop. The rare London sun doused the front in warm light, the brick soaking up the rays while it could before September gave way to horrible winter weather. Hermione pushed through the door and immediately closed her eyes to inhale the smell of coffee, leather, and books. The muted rustling of pages helped drown out the noise from the street.

“Hello, dear,” came a voice from behind a shelf. A tall woman in a plaid apron appeared around the corner, a kind smile on her face and a braid of white hair wound around her head. “Welcome to Tate’s.”

Hermione was immediately reminded of Professor McGonagall, though she was certain this lady was unable to transform into a cat. A nametag on her apron read “Caroline.” Hermione smiled. The tightness in her chest lessened as she stepped fully into the shop and let the door click shut behind her. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I—“

“Are you here for the meeting?” Caroline asked. “They’re just upstairs. Let Stewart know I’ll be up with the tea in a few minutes.”

She disappeared around the corner before Hermione could speak. Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned towards the stairs in the corner.

Laughter greeted her as she stepped onto the landing, and she spotted five people crowded around a small table covered in scones and sandwiches. A young woman with short black hair perked up upon spotting Hermione.

“Ooooh, a new person!” The woman all but leapt from her seat on the blue couch, making her way across the small room with lightning speed. “I’m Emma, what’s your name?”

Hermione smiled at the woman’s infectious energy. “It’s—“

She was interrupted by another newcomer just behind her, and a frighteningly familiar voice. “Sorry I’m late; Caroline caught me with the tea tray.”

A chorus of hellos rang out as Hermione turned to face the owner of the voice, and she cursed inwardly at the pointed features framed by silver-blond hair that greeted her. From the neck up, he looked just the same as he had at the Ministry not two days prior with his long hair in a low ponytail, but the effect of a simple oxford shirt and grey trousers in place of robes was overwhelming. Recognition flashed through Draco Malfoy’s eyes as he met her gaze. She could practically feel the thoughts racing through his mind before his face settled into a careful mask. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked. She tried to convince herself that she was imagining things—Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a tea tray, let alone into a muggle book club. Surely this was just a side-effect of her insomnia. She hadn’t slept for more than three hours during the last seventy-two, so hallucinations weren’t out of the question. “What—“

“Oh, you know Draco?” Emma asked, bouncing up on her toes between them.

Hermione blinked. She hoped her mouth wasn’t hanging open, but she was having trouble containing her shock. If Emma could see him, and she quite obviously could, he couldn’t be a figment of her imagination. Draco Malfoy, in a muggle book club, carrying a tea tray. She supposed she had seen stranger things in her life.

“Don’t overwhelm her, Ems,” Draco replied smoothly. He handed off the tray and gestured to the stairs. “A word, Granger?”

He wrapped his hand around her elbow and guided her out of the room before she could protest. His grip was firm, and if they had been any younger, Hermione would’ve read it as threatening.

“You need to leave,” he whispered as soon as they were out of sight. His hand didn’t leave her arm.

Hermione’s first instinct was to laugh, but she quashed it when she saw his face. His brows were drawn up as if he were pleading with her, and the softness of his mouth lent sincerity to his visage. Still, who was he to demand that  _she_  leave? She had just as much right to be there.

“Not a chance,” she whispered back.

Malfoy pursed his lips and huffed a breath out of his nose. She could see the struggle in his eyes, but he finally spoke again, his voice low and reluctant, “Please.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot towards her hairline. “Must be a pretty special book club if you’re willing to beg for it.” She realized his fingers were still wrapped around her arm when they tightened, the faint scratch of fingernails pressing into her skin. She made no move to pull away even as her mind flashed a distinct warning of danger. She felt her heart speed up, the adrenaline flowing through her veins as she stared up at her childhood enemy. Vaguely, she noticed Draco’s pupils widen, threatening to overtake the silver irises.  

“Are you guys ready to get started?”

Emma’s head popped around the corner, and the tense silence between the pair dissolved. Draco’s hand fell from her arm, and he flashed an easy grin at the woman.

“Right behind you,” he said.

Hermione stared up at him, unable to adjust her view of the Draco Malfoy she knew to this friendly stranger in front of her. True, he had mellowed out after the war, making the effort to improve his image in the Wizarding World, but the same pride and coldness had remained.

Emma disappeared once more, and the tension returned to Draco’s shoulders.

“If anyone asks, we met at secondary school. Follow my lead if they get nosy,” he said quickly.

“But—“

“Merlin,” Draco breathed, moving further into her space until Hermione could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “Can you just trust me on this?”

Hermione arched one eyebrow in response.  “Trust you? Really, Malfoy?”

“If you want to hold onto grudges from twenty years ago—“

“ _Grudges_?”

“—by all means, feel free,” Draco finished, “but not here.”

They maintained eye contact until it was uncomfortable, and Draco broke away to return to the meeting. Hermione reached out and grabbed his arm.

“You know I’m going to want an explanation,” she said when he turned back to her.

Draco nodded once and slipped his arm from her grasp.

*~*

“See you next Thursday!” Emma called as she crossed the street, waving cheerfully at Draco and Hermione. The meeting had left them in better spirits than before, and they both smiled as they returned the wave. The conversation had flowed easily, and Hermione had been pleased to find that Draco’s insights on their current reading material had challenged her thinking in a positive way.

As soon as Emma was out of sight, Hermione turned towards Draco and crossed her arms. “So,” she said.

Draco shook his head. “Not here.” He swept one arm out to the side as the other pressed against her lower back. She began walking without a second thought.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere more private,” he answered, not bothering to explain further.

They walked in silence for several minutes, Draco’s hand a constant pressure in the bend of Hermione’s spine. It occurred to her that she ought to pull away and put distance between them, but the touch grounded her. She didn’t want to read into it, so she shoved the thoughts to the back of her mind.

“How long have you been going to Tate’s?” she asked, just to fill the void.

Draco removed his hand—Hermione’s steps stuttered at the loss of contact—and lifted it to rub at the back of his neck.

“I suppose it’s been over a year already,” he replied. “I started going just as Scorpius started his second year.”

“That long?” Hermione asked. “Why—“

Draco flashed her a look, and the words died in her throat. “I promised you an explanation, but not until we get off the street.” He halted in front of a red door and produced a single key—it was normal by muggle standards, which surprised Hermione more than necessary. “And I expect an explanation in return.”

“Of what?” Hermione asked as he turned the key.

Without answering, Draco disappeared through the door and up a flight of stairs. Hermione followed quickly, and they traveled through a second door on the first floor.

The studio flat was sparsely furnished, but she could tell each piece was quality and probably outrageously expensive. A leather sofa sat against one wall, a dining table and set of chairs in glass and chrome took their place next to a small kitchenette, and a large bed with white and navy coverings dominated the left side of the single room. However, the overwhelming feature of the room was the piles upon piles of books. Shelves overflowing stood against every wall, stacks sat next to the sofa, and the glass dining table looked ready to crack under the weight. Hermione found it hard to breathe for a moment.

“This—” She waved a hand around, trying to get her point across without words. “This is—“

“—is my flat, Granger,” Draco replied. He cracked a grin as he placed his key in a bowl on the counter in the kitchen.

Hermione whirled around, her mouth gaping. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid.”

“But,” Hermione stuttered, turning back to the room, “this—this is …”

“I know.” Draco smirked and pointed towards the couch. “Feel free to sit. Would you like to stay for dinner? I don’t have anything in, but I could call for takeaway.”

Peering at him over her shoulder, Hermione tried once more to reconcile the Draco Malfoy she thought she knew with this man standing comfortably in the middle of an incredibly small, incredibly muggle flat.

“Is Thai okay?” he asked, holding up a paper menu.

“What - the -  _hell_  - is going on, Malfoy?” she asked, approaching him quickly and jabbing a finger at his chest.

He snatched her hand away, his fingers wrapping tightly around her wrist, and Hermione stumbled towards him. She regained her balance through a hand on his chest, but didn’t push away.

“Would it kill you to stop being so suspicious?” he spat, anger flashing through his eyes. “I will not be put on trial in my own home.”

“You can’t seriously be asking me to believe that you  _live_  here? You, of all people?” Hermione searched his face, looking for any hint that he was less than genuine. Aside from the frustration, she saw nothing but truth. Her fingers shifted against his chest, and she realized the compromising position she was in. She dropped her hand to her side.

“That’s your problem, Granger. For all your preaching about acceptance and peace, you are so bloody closed-minded.” He released her other hand and turned away. “Do I seem different to you? Do I—“

He stopped, pursing his lips and breathing heavily through his nose. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Hermione remained silent, not wanting to give him reason to lash out.

“Just … just go. It’s obvious you’re not going to believe a word that comes out of my mouth, so why should I even bother?”

The defeat in his tone made her pause. Again, she was thrown off by how dissimilar this man was to the one she thought she knew. To be fair, had she ever really known Draco Malfoy? Apart from the insults traded at school, and the careful truce they had called since, the only thing Hermione had to go on was the gossip columns in the Daily Prophet and stories from their mutual coworkers at the Ministry. Realization slammed into her.

“I think I get it,” she said softly. “Why you escape here.”

“You don’t understand the first—“

“You aren’t judged by your past,” she interrupted. “They don’t see you as the wealthy son of pureblood elitists. They don’t know what you’ve done, or what you’ve been through, so they don’t treat you like anyone special. There’s a certain kind of freedom in that, I suppose—they don’t have expectations of you, so you don’t have anything to live up to.”

Draco flinched at the allusion to his father, but he didn’t say anything as she spoke.

 “Since you have me all figured out” —he finally turned to face her once again and, more gently than before, took her left hand and lifted it— “care to explain this?”

It took a moment for her to realize what he was talking about. The usual glint of her wedding ring was missing from her finger, and she could feel the weight of it in her pocket. Hermione sighed.  _Tit for tat_ , she thought. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she muttered, not loudly enough for it to be directed at Draco, but she was sure he heard it.

“As appealing as that sounds, that’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he replied.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and the easy fellowship they had achieved during the walk from Tate’s returned. Draco grinned, and before another moment had passed, the two found themselves giggling like school children.

“It’s not malicious, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Hermione said once they had gotten their breath back. “I just …”

“Wanted a change?” Draco finished. At her nod, he continued. “I know the feeling. My therapist calls it a mid-life crisis.”

“Hmm.”

Hermione let her gaze drift around the flat, taking in her surroundings. Titles of popular and obscure muggle books came at her from every direction. She supposed if she were to have a secret hideaway, it would look similar to this one. “Does anyone else know about this place? From our world, I mean.”

“Not a soul. My account manager at Gringotts might suspect though, since he sends a check to my landlord every month.”

“And how often do you stay here?”

“Every Tuesday and Thursday, and most weekends, if I can get away with it.”

Hermione let out a low whistle. “Doesn’t your wife wonder where you are?”

“Does Weasley know where you are?” Draco shot back.

“He … he works late on Thursdays, with George, at the shop,” Hermione replied.

There was a moment of tense silence, and Hermione hoped Draco wouldn’t push the issue. It wasn’t that she was hiding this from her husband; there just wasn’t a point to telling him. He wasn’t interested in Hermione’s hobbies, never had been, and there was no reason to believe he would start now. Still, now there was a forbidden aspect to it. Hermione knew she could be friends with whoever she wanted, but this, meeting with Draco Malfoy in a secret flat in muggle London, wasn’t especially appropriate. The slight rush of adrenaline through her system at the thought of sneaking around caught her off guard—she hadn’t had that feeling since Hogwarts and the war. It was exhilarating.

Draco made a move in the corner of her eye, and the motion was enough to draw her away from her thoughts. He was peering at her; she felt herself blush under his scrutiny.

“I—I have to go,” she said slowly. She wanted to stay, wanted to see if she could hold onto the familiar feeling of excitement, but the risks were too great. Shaking her head, she silently berated herself; she was  _married_. And this was Draco Malfoy.  _Don’t be stupid, Hermione._

“No Thai?” Draco asked.

Hermione shook her head once. “Can I apparate from here?” she asked, going for the secret pouch in her purse where she kept her wand.

“Feel free.”

She turned on the spot before another moment could pass, briefly noticing the bewildered look on Draco’s face before the darkness squeezed around her.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks passed, and aside from being cordial to one another at the Thursday night book club meetings, nothing changed. At first, Hermione tried to convince herself that the meetings were enough to get her through the day, like a mini holiday in the middle of a mundane week. She would recall the excitement she felt that first Thursday and try to recreate it.

It took a month for her to realize it hadn’t been the meeting. Rather, it had been the events that had preceded and followed.

With November on the horizon, London was a sea of umbrellas. Hermione stood just inside Tate’s, bracing herself for the long, wet walk to the Apparition point. All of the others had already left, hurrying towards cabs and Tube stations.

“It’s not going to stop just because you’re too stubborn to deal with it.”

Hermione turned at the sound, rolling her eyes. “Are you referring to the rain or something different?” she asked, eyeing him carefully. She hadn’t been alone with Draco since the first Thursday, and she could already feel the same adrenaline creeping through her body.

Draco remained silent, a smirk spreading across his face.

“You’re not as smooth as you think you are,” she said, pulling her gloves out of her pocket.

“Oh?” he asked. “I bet I could surprise you.”

Hermione scoffed. Turning towards the door once more, she was dismayed to find the rain had thickened.

“You know, my flat’s only a block away.”

“And?”

“And you could wait there instead of trekking through this to get to the Apparition point.”

“Or I could simply apparate from there.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You  _could_ ,” he conceded, “but I seem to remember you refusing my offer of Thai once before—it would be rude to do so again.”

This time it was Hermione’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Before another word was spoken, the pair was half-walking, half-running down the pavement in the direction of Draco’s building. When they emerged into the hallway, dripping wet and out of breath, Hermione took one look at Draco, his white-blond hair clinging to his face, and promptly burst into laughter.

“You don’t look much better, Granger,” Draco muttered, heading up the stairs.

“I can imagine,” she replied. “England has never been very kind to my hair.”

He huffed a laugh and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs.

“No come back, Malfoy?” Hermione teased. “Shall I record the day for the history books? Draco Malfoy deliberately misses a chance to poke fun at Hermione Granger’s hair.”

“You know, after thirty years, I think I’ve finally gotten tired of it.” His keys clattered in the bowl on the counter, and he shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on a hook just inside the door. “Call it personal growth.”

He moved behind her, slipping his fingers into the collar of her trench. His knuckles brushed against the bare skin of her neck, and Hermione found herself pressing towards the fleeting touch before it was gone, and Draco was peeling her jacket down her arms.

“So, Thai,” she found herself saying, hoping the flush in her cheeks could be equated to the walk from the shop.

“Mmm,” —Draco hung her coat next to his, and turned towards a stack of takeaway menus on the counter— “there’s a place around the corner that makes the best Pad Thai in London. Unless you’d rather something else.”

Hermione shook her head. Pulling her wand from her purse, she cast a quick drying charm on her boots. “Is there somewhere I can survey the damage?” she asked, indicating her hair. Her fringe was plastered to her forehead, and she could feel drops of water rolling down her neck.

Draco pointed towards the only other door in the flat. The door opened to reveal a small room dominated by the largest shower Hermione had ever seen. Entirely made of rich brown granite, it could’ve easily fit six people with elbow room. A bench ran along a wall; she was sure it was long enough for her to lie down on.

She had to resist laughing as she stepped up to the mirror, calling out, “A bit much, don’t you think?”

“Hmm?” Draco appeared at the door, mobile phone in one hand.

Hermione pointed towards the shower before moving her hands back to her hair, searching for pins. “Do you throw parties in your shower?”

“Only on very special occasions,” Draco replied drily.

Hermione snorted. She continued to search for pins that had tangled themselves in wet hair. She didn’t notice Draco’s approach until he was right behind her.

“You missed one,” he said, reaching up. Their eyes locked in the mirror as his fingers plucked the hidden pin out, and the bulk of her hair tumbled from its precarious position. Hermione thought she saw something flash through his eyes, but it was gone before she could discern what it was.

Draco broke away, concentrating on the muggle mobile in his hands and leaned again on the doorframe. “Any preferences, or should I just order for the both of us?”

“I’m not picky,” Hermione replied, running her fingers through her hair. She had never quite perfected a detangling charm, so it was safer to fix her hair the muggle way.

She heard Draco slip into the main room, followed by the sound of his voice on the phone. Leaning forward, she grasped both sides of the sink and studied her reflection. What was she even doing here? Whispered warnings of “shouldn’t” had been playing in her head since they left the bookshop, but she had effectively ignored them. Until now.

Her gaze wandered over the bags under her eyes, the frown lines on her forehead, and the greying hair at her temples. She was forty, and before the book club, before Draco, she had felt like her life was already over. The meetings were a bandage—a simple remedy that never actually solved anything—but when she was here, in this flat, it felt like a cure. Hermione Granger didn’t cope well with  _safe_. She needed adventure, and intrigue … not endless routine.

She rolled her shoulders, fastened her now-mostly-dry hair in a quick plait, and left the ridiculous bathroom.

“Thirty minutes,” Draco said. He stood in the kitchenette, pouring a bottle of red wine into two wine glasses.

Hermione thanked him for the offered glass and moved to the couch. Draco followed, settling next to her. “So, is this all you do here? Read and take advantage of poor weather to lure unsuspecting women to your secret flat?”

“I wouldn’t dare call you unsuspecting, Granger,” Draco replied with a smile.

“Oh?” she prompted.

“No, you know exactly what you’re doing.” He swirled his wine and took a sip.

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve seen the way you are at the Ministry, seen the way you walk through the corridors like you’ve got somewhere better to be. You’re constantly checking your watch, counting down the minutes until you can escape. You carry a cup of coffee with you everywhere like it’s the only thing keeping you awake.” Draco’s voice was low and taunting, and Hermione found herself leaning in to listen closer. “Then there’s you at Tate’s. The first week, it’s like a light turned on. You looked alive again. You look the same right now.”

“I …”

“I get it, Granger,” he whispered. “You’re bored. You have all of this energy and drive and stubbornness, and nowhere to focus it.”

The room turned on its side, and Hermione closed the distance between them without a second thought. Draco’s lips were thin and warm, tasting faintly of merlot and London rain. Lightning rushed through Hermione’s body. The voice screaming “Wrong!” in her head was drowned out by the renewed chorus of “Different! Exciting! Dangerous!”

She was vaguely aware of a thin hand grasping her hip, squeezing tightly enough to anchor her to the ground. Teeth and lips and tongues fought for dominance and Hermione wondered if it was possible to actually catch fire. Draco nipped at her bottom lip once before pulling back.

“Wine,” he said, his voice hoarse. Hermione found her wine glass leaving her grasp and registered a faint clink of it settling on the coffee table before Draco’s lips were on hers once more.

With both hands free, Hermione felt the heat of his palm travel over her shoulder to the bare skin above her collarbone. He kissed her like he wanted to possess her, cupping the back of her neck with one hand while pulling her closer by the hip until their torsos were pressed together. Hermione trailed her fingers over Draco’s ribcage, body heat bleeding through the fabric of his oxford shirt.

His lips trailed to her jaw, and her head tilted back as she fought to regain control of her breath. Teeth dragged across her pulse point before sinking into the skin just above her collar. She couldn’t stop the whimper before it escaped, the sharp spark of pain drawing from her sounds she didn’t recognize. Draco soothed the sting with his tongue; Hermione melted against him, trapped between teeth and hands and torso.

She had a split second of warning before his arm braced behind her spine and he pulled, lifting her up and across to straddle his thighs. Before she could move in again, Draco dug his thumbs into her hipbones.

“This—this isn’t anything, Granger,” he said quietly. “Don’t read into this.”

Hermione nodded once, her bottom lip between her teeth. She moved her hands to the buttons of Draco’s shirt.

Another squeeze of his thumbs halted her movements.

“I need you to stop now, if—“

Hermione shook her head, her fingers flicking once more towards his buttons. The first one popped open.

“Say it, Hermione,” he said, voice low and tense. “What do you want?”

The sound of her name in that tone caused her stomach to clench. She leaned forward, palms pressed to Draco’s chest, until her lips brushed the curve of his ear. “I want this. With you. I want you to take me apart and make me forget and remember at the same time. I want to act and react without expectations.”

Pulling away, she saw the way Draco’s eyes dilated, felt the intake of breath and his pulse jump beneath her hands.

His arms shifted, one traveling around her waist and the other up her spine until his fingers clenched around the back of her neck once more. They sat, frozen, noses brushing as they simply shared breath. They were too close for Hermione to focus on Draco’s eyes, so she closed hers, willing herself to simply feel. She tilted her pelvis, and Draco groaned at the pressure, splaying his fingers against her neck and arse and guiding her lips to his for another bruising kiss.

There was a chime before Hermione could concentrate on his buttons again.

“Fuck,” Draco groaned. “Food.”

“Mmm, just leave it,” Hermione replied, pressing her lips against the underside of his chin.

“Can’t.” He tapped her hip once and guided her off of his lap. “Two seconds.”

He disappeared through the door. Hermione took three deep breaths, waiting for the panic to kick in. It never did. Touching a finger to her swollen bottom lip, she grinned.

She pulled herself from the couch, hands automatically smoothing her jumper and hair. The notion of simply losing the article of clothing flitted through her mind, but she dismissed it as Draco returned, clutching a paper bag. Their eyes met, electricity crackled, and Hermione flew at him.

The bag found its way to the kitchen counter, Draco’s arms found their way around her waist, and Hermione’s back found itself forced against the now-closed door. Pressed together from head to toe wasn’t close enough though, and Hermione quickly spread her thighs to draw Draco between them. Taking advantage of the added pressure of the door and his body, Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist and tangled her hands in his hair.

She let herself fall into the kiss, allowing Draco take the lead as he licked into her mouth. The flavor of wine had faded, and Hermione found herself drinking in the unfamiliar taste. Her fingers drifted once more to the buttons. She was too far gone to want to deal with barriers between them.

As soon as the fabric parted, she slipped her hands in to glide across the pale skin, memorizing the variations that interrupted the smooth flesh of his chest—a scar here, a mole there, and a dusting of fine hair. Draco’s hands slipped under her jumper, trailing fire across her abdomen.

He pulled them away from the wall, careful to support Hermione as he walked them towards the bed. She fell with a jolt when his knees hit the mattress, but Draco’s hands never left her waist, and they were soon occupied with pushing her jumper up over her head. She retaliated, finishing work on the last of his buttons before he shed the shirt completely.

The impulse to shield herself threatened to overwhelm her—she knew what motherhood and age had done to her body -- but Draco didn’t give her the chance. He urged her back, following her on hands and knees. He mouthed at the edge of her bra, adding teeth and tongue randomly as he moved down her stomach. The effect was intoxicating.

Hermione’s hands fell to his hair as his fell to her belt. A second later, the denim was peeled away, her boots were discarded, and she found herself in nothing but her undergarments. She blushed as Draco’s eyes roamed over her body, so she concentrated instead on his own belt and trousers.

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” he whispered, running a palm up her side to cup her breast through the thin cotton fabric.

“I’m forty, Malfoy,” she replied. She coaxed his trousers down enough for him to kick them off, leaving him in simple black pants. Her breath quickened at the evidence of his arousal beneath the fabric. “I know what I look like.”

“Obviously, you don’t.” He reached back, unclasped the strap, and pulled it from her chest. “And here, it’s Draco.”

Fingers and lips descended on her skin, raising goose pimples in their wake. Coherent thought was wiped from Hermione’s mind. Draco’s teeth closed over her nipple, and her hips bucked of their own volition.

He chuckled lowly; one hand drifted between her thighs, cupping the heat underneath her cotton knickers. Draco’s hand shifted, fingers slipping around the fabric. Hermione choked back a moan.

“None of that now,” he teased, moving the fabric aside and letting his fingers come to rest on her clit. Gently, he rocked his fingertips against her. “I want to hear you.”

Her head fell back against the mattress as she let out a whimper. As Draco continued his light ministrations, Hermione’s hips squirmed against the duvet. It wasn’t enough. Heat pooled in her gut, but Draco would only keep her on the edge for hours at this rate. She reached down, tangled her fingers through his, and pressed. Lava rolled up her spine, forcing a moan out of her throat.

“Fuck,” Draco whispered, watching her. He grasped the edges of her knickers and swept them down her legs before doing the same with his pants. He returned after rustling through a small drawer.

Hermione was surprised to find a foil packet in his hand.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he scolded, tossing the condom onto the sheets.

“Sorry,” she replied. Visions of Draco with faceless muggle girls flashed through her mind, and she pushed them to the side. It was none of her business.

Fingers returned to her clit, more forcefully this time, and Hermione pressed her hips up, desperate for more. Propped above her on one arm, Draco watched her face. When he finally pressed two fingers inside, careful to keep his thumb circling the bundle of nerves, Hermione groaned.

“Oooh, Draco, keep doing that.” She dragged her fingernails down his chest, across his stomach, before wrapping a fist around his cock. She pulled at the length, her grip firm, matching the rhythm of Draco’s fingers pumping into her.

His movements faltered at the contact, and he dropped his forehead to hers. “Fuck, Granger, I’m not twenty-five anymore,” he whispered. “Nngh, you first.”

He shifted down, effectively freeing himself from her hold, and took Hermione’s nipple between his lips. Her body collapsed to the two points of contact; Draco’s fingers twisted, his thumb flicked, and his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh. Reality halted, shrinking into a bundle in her abdomen, and then white light exploded between her eyelids.

Hermione shouted at the ceiling. Shockwaves poured through her body, and she hardly noticed Draco moving away or the faint rip of foil before he was back, pressing his cock into her just as the manic pulsing slowed. Oversensitive and drunk with endorphins, she couldn’t find the strength to wrap her legs around him.

Hips flush, Draco let out a low groan before meeting her eyes. “Merlin, this isn’t going to take long.” He moved fluidly, his spine undulating at an easy pace. His skin was flushed and glistening with a sheen of sweat.

Hermione could do nothing more than dig her fingernails into his biceps, whimpering with each thrust as his pelvis rocked against her clit. Distantly, she wished she was still able to orgasm twice in one night. She clawed down his sides, desperate for something to hang onto as he continued to drive into her.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco choked out. He pushed up onto his knees and seized her hips, his pace reaching a frantic level. With a shout, his spine went rigid, and his fingers tightened to the point of pain. Hermione was sure she was going to have bruises.

It was a small price to pay though. Her chest heaved as she tried to slow her breathing, but the rest of her body felt boneless. Draco collapsed next to her, and she came down from her high by concentrating on the sound of their breaths mingling in the heavy cloud of sex around them.


	3. Chapter 3

Thursdays remained much the same after that evening. Hermione and Draco would leave Tate’s together, exchanging banter and usually picking up takeaway before climbing the stairs to Draco’s flat. After being interrupted by the doorbell a second time, they decided it was simply easier to pick up the food first, rather than dealing with the hassle of delivery. As soon as the door would shut behind them, buttons were attacked with fervor, clothing dropping as they made their way to the bed, the couch, and one rather memorable time in the ridiculous shower.

London would fall to darkness as they ate cartons of takeaway while wrapped in sheets. Hermione would pick through the stacks of books around the room, and Draco would fall asleep while she read by wandlight.

Friday mornings, there would be strong coffee, teasing, and a promise for next week. Hermione had never slept better in her life.

Neither dared mention their spouses.

*~*

Draco’s office at the Ministry was expansive, living up to the reputation of his family with its heavy walnut desk and cushy leather chairs. As Head of the Investigation Department within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he had an image to maintain, much like his father had before him.

Draco found the whole thing oppressive.

Still, he enjoyed the financial comfort and respect that came with the position. He had to deal with the media as the face of the department, liaise with the rest of the MLE, and directly manage a staff of twelve. His employees trusted him, his superiors relied on him, and the media had begun painting his image in a positive light.

Even still, whispers of his past followed him wherever he went, and he was tired of having to prove his worth. Thursdays were his safe haven, free of judgment and power plays.

Three months after the start of their affair, on a blustery Wednesday morning in February, Draco was poring over the latest reports on his desk when a knock on the door disturbed him.

Theodore Nott, Draco’s account manager from Gringotts, stood on the threshold. With thick brown hair slicked back and light hazel eyes over sharp cheekbones, Theo hadn’t changed much since Hogwarts. He carried a file folder under one arm.

“Give us a moment, Nott,” Draco greeted. He waved a hand at one of his guest chairs. “Have a seat.”

Nott settled heavily as Draco finished the last report by tapping his wand to the parchment to add his signature to the bottom. He looked up and grinned.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Just business, old friend,” Nott replied, shifting the file folder across his lap.

“Oh, business is boring. I’ve been meaning to send you an owl—Astoria wants to invite you over for dinner sometime before Scorpius returns from school.”

The other man pursed his lips and forced his gaze to the floor. Draco took in the subtle shift in Nott’s shoulders and the tension around his mouth.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Nott looked up. “Not … wrong, per say. Well, perhaps for you, but the consequences could—that is, this is probably a bad time …”

“Spit it out, Nott. What’s going on?”

With a sigh and a shifting of papers, Nott pulled a document from the stack and slid it across the desk. It was a photograph—wizarding, indicated by the moving figures—and in full color. The red door was unmistakable, vibrant and outlining the two people on the stoop: one with white blond hair and a key,  the other with a bag of Chinese takeaway. Draco’s stomach dropped.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, snatching the photo off the desk. Without a doubt, he and Granger were recognizable. And …  _flirting_. “Where did you get this?”

Nott pushed a piece of parchment towards him, this time a letter. “Found it on my desk this morning, attached to this … friendly correspondence.”

Draco let his eyes wander over the letter.

_Tut tut, Mr. Malfoy._

_You should be more careful with your mudblood girlfriend. You wouldn’t want your reputation tarnished with such an association. What would people say? What would Astoria say?_

_I would be happy to keep your secret for the right compensation. Consider this a fair warning—break it off with Hermione Weasley and I will consider the matter resolved. If I suspect the affair continues, I will send instructions for payment. Failure to pay will result in the other photos going to the Daily Prophet._

_I will be watching._

He clenched his fist around the parchment. Draco could hear nothing but a rushing sound in his ears, as if he was standing in the middle of King’s Cross with a train barreling at him. Blackmailed. He was being blackmailed.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose.  _Deep breaths_ , he reminded himself. Nothing would be solved if he panicked.

“Right then,” he said. “I need you to tell me everything you know.”

“What’s to tell?” Nott replied. He waved a hand at the damaged letter now crumpled in Draco’s hand. “That was sitting on my desk this morning. Surely—well, surely you know someone that would, that is to say—”

“That would want to see me ruined?” Draco finished. “I have enemies, Nott—you know that. But no one knows about the Notting Hill flat.”

“I’ll ask the goblins—see if they saw anyone in the offices,” Nott offered. “But I’m not sure they’ll tell me even if they did. I mean, they won’t be forthcoming with information if there’s nothing in it for them.”

“Bribe them if you have to. Find out everything.”

“What are you going to do? I mean—”

“If I find whoever sent this? I’m going to tear the bastard limb from limb for thinking he can threaten me,” Draco said lowly.

“But … is it true then?” Nott asked. “Are you, well, sleeping with the Weasley bint?”

Draco slammed a fist onto the desk and Nott jumped. “It’d be none of your business if I was. You knew about the others—fucking around with Granger would be nothing different.”

“But those were Muggle girls, weren’t they? One night stands, not—well, not an  _affair_ , really. Do you even remember their names?”

“Get out,” Draco said, standing. He slipped the picture and the letter into the top drawer of his desk. “Bribe some goblins. Get me answers.”

“And if they send another letter?”

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair, knocking pieces loose from the low ponytail.

“You have my permission to start transferring funds.”

*~*

“I need to talk to you.”

Draco had ventured through the maze of cubicles in the MLE and stood just outside the office of Hermione Granger. It was much smaller than his own, but she had made it comfortable. Large corkboards filled the walls, fresh flowers sat on a small table, and she had added pictures of her family to the bookshelves.

The woman behind the desk looked up at the sound of Draco’s voice and her eyes widened.

“Come in, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said carefully for the benefit of eavesdroppers, raising her eyebrows at him. “What can I do for you?”

Draco stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. Pulling out his wand, he cast an Imperturbable Charm and turned to face her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I—” Draco moved towards her, and she met him in the middle of the office. Strong arms fell around her waist, and Draco pulled her to him. “I received a letter today.”

“Draco, you’re scaring me,” Hermione whispered. She ran a soothing hand down his back.

“There was a picture attached. Of us. Outside the flat.”

Hermione detached herself from Draco’s grasp. Her skin paled, her breathing quickened, and her mouth gaped.

“Blackmail? But—”

“I know,” Draco said. His fingers clenched at empty air, tension visible in his shoulders. He swallowed heavily. “I don’t know who it is or how they found us or …”

“Hey, stop for a minute.” Hermione placed her palms on Draco’s chest. “Deep breaths.”

“Why aren’t you panicking about this?”

She looked down, dropping her arms, and turned away. “I … I made a decision last night.”

Draco didn’t say anything; he watched the line of her shoulders, watched as she fidgeted with her hands.

“I don’t want you to think it’s because of you or … well,  _for_  you or any of that nonsense. It’s been a long time coming, and it’s just never felt like the right point in our lives, so I’ve tried to ignore it for the last few years and I guess—”

“Merlin, Granger, can no one speak plainly today?”

She turned and faced him. “I’m leaving Ron.”

For a moment, it felt as if all the air had left the office. Draco could do nothing more than stare at her.

“I think he suspects anyway,” she said. “I talked to George—Ron hasn’t worked a Thursday night in a month, and he hasn’t asked me where I’ve been. Part of me wonders if he’s not hiding something from me too, but I can’t very well ask him about it without bringing this”—she waved a hand between them—“up for discussion.”

“Fuck.” The word was an exhale, but it was all Draco could manage at the moment.

“I guess that’s why I’m not as worried. Won’t be as bad for me if I’m separated, will it?”

Draco ran a hand over his face. He sank into one of Hermione’s guest chairs.

“What were they threatening?” Hermione asked, perching on the edge of her other guest chair.

“We break it off, I pay them some exorbitant amount of money, or they release pictures to the Daily Prophet.”

Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment. “So, this all goes away if we just stop?”

“I already authorized payments with my account manager.”

A lack of response from Hermione after a few moments made him look up. She had an odd expression on her face—one that Draco couldn’t immediately identify.

“Oh,” was all she said. Her voice was soft, almost disbelieving, and Draco wondered for a moment what he had said.

“I—I can’t …” He looked back towards his hands, clasped together by his knees, and swallowed. “I’m not one who willingly gives up the things he wants. Not if there’s a way I can keep it.”

He heard Hermione shift, but he continued to stare at his hands until her fingers brushed over his.

“I didn’t realize I was that important,” she said. She held his hands between hers, thumb drawing circles around his knuckles. “Are you sure?”

“How can I be?” he snarled, ripping his hands from her grasp. He rose from the chair and began pacing the small room. “Do you know what I’m risking here? Everything I’ve built for myself could come crashing down if this gets out.”

“What you’re  _risking_? Is that all this has been? These last few months—it's just been a risk for you?”

“Oh, don’t throw that at me—that's all it has been for you as well. You wouldn’t have come anywhere near me if you didn’t need some sort of weird adrenaline rush just to sleep at night.”

“Yes, Malfoy, you’re completely right. I’ve just been using you in lieu of sleeping aides,” Hermione spat, rolling her eyes. “Don’t pretend for a moment that you know what’s going on inside my head.” She rose from her chair.

Draco stopped pacing. He knew he looked a mess—his hair was falling from the low ponytail, he’d unbuttoned the top of his robes, and he was sure his eyes were frantic. He needed to punch something. Or curse something.

Or…

He closed the distance between them in a flash. Snaking a hand around to grip the back of Hermione’s neck, he pulled them together, flush from hip to shoulder. She went rigid as soon as his mouth moved over hers, bruising in force.

She shoved him.

“Oh no, don’t think for a second that it’s okay for you to just—”

“You’re not just a risk,” he said quickly, and Hermione fell silent. “Well, you are but—you … Merlin, you’re a fucking contradiction, Granger! You’re the only thing stable and normal in my life, and yet I feel like I’m walking the edge of a cliff when I’m with you. Everything about you tells me I should be running in the opposite direction, but every time I turn around all I want is to be in bed watching you eat dim sum from a carton. You’re in my head every goddamn minute, and I couldn’t get you out even if I wanted to.”

“I—”

“No. Let me finish because you can be damned sure I’m not going to say it again,” Draco said. He took a deep breath. “I’m addicted to you. I feel better when I’m with you. Hell,  _I’m_  better when I’m with you. If this is what it takes to keep you, then so be it.”

A muscle twitched in Hermione’s cheek.

“When will it be too much?” she asked quietly. “At what point will you decide this isn’t worth it anymore?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have no idea,” he replied. He took a step towards her, closing the distance only when he decided she wouldn’t pull away. “I won’t promise it won’t happen. I just know it’s not happening today. One day at a time, okay?”

She looked up at him, searching his face for anything other than truth.

“I …” Hermione sucked in a breath. “Okay. Alright then.”

He ducked slowly, giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted before pressing his lips to hers. It was chaste but full of something deeper than previous kisses. Draco tightened his arms around her back, broke the kiss, and buried his face in her neck. He felt the drag of her fingertips against the back of his neck, coaxing him away from her.

“I hate to do this, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” she said.

Draco looked around once, suddenly surprised that they were in Hermione’s office at the Ministry.

“Er—right, sorry.” He moved towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

*~*

A week later, there was a small piece in the Daily Prophet mentioning the separation of Ron and Hermione Weasley. She moved into a small flat near the Ministry, but continued her normal routine as best she could. Thursdays remained secret.

Draco received another letter containing nothing other than instructions for fund transfers. Without further clues as to his blackmailer’s identity, he had no choice but to pay.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m turning forty next week,” Draco said, staring at the ceiling. His fingers ran lazily through Hermione’s hair where it was spread across his chest like a fan.

“Mmm, don’t sound so excited,” came the muffled reply.

“Hey, you were allowed your mid-life crisis when you turned forty,” Draco teased. “I might just wake up next week and decide I want to trade you in for a Parisian model in her twenties and a red sports car.”

Hermione snorted.

“I think I should be offended that you’re not more concerned.”

“You forget,” she said, lifting her head from its comfortable position to look up at him, “that I am completely confident in my situation at the moment.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” She let her fingers trace across Draco’s abdomen, following the sparse trail of hair. Shifting, she pressed her lips against the warm skin beneath her, alternating between light nips and swipes of her tongue.

Draco groaned as she wrapped a hand around him, exceedingly grateful that he had been granted a few hours of recuperation. She stroked up and closed her teeth around his nipple.

“Nngh, you’re going to be the death of me, Granger,” he panted.

*~*

Bright and early on Monday morning, Hermione found herself in her office, combing through paperwork. She knew it wasn’t strictly legal, but then, desperate times called for desperate measures. She didn’t know why she hadn’t started digging earlier—Draco had been making payments to his blackmailer for four months.

Records of transfers from Draco’s account to an unidentified foreign account sat in neat stacks on her desk. The bank statements had come across her desk through no small feat of Confundus charms and a cleverly placed disguise. _Really, Gringotts should look into increasing their security._ Hermione found it far too easy to get what she wanted. At least she hadn’t had to escape on the back of a dragon this time.

It only took two hours of connecting the dots.

Sitting back in her chair, Hermione stared at the incriminating evidence and sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.

*~*

“Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione said, knocking on the doorframe of Draco’s office.

Without a word, he beckoned her into his office. The door was quickly shut behind her, and Hermione felt the wordless Imperturbable Charm go up around them.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked, coming around his desk to meet her.

She clutched the documents to her chest. “I—er, I found something. You … well, you should probably take a look at it.”

“What is it?”

Hermione lowered herself into a chair, keeping the documents close. “Well, you know how I’m too curious and stubborn for my own good, right? I did some digging on … your blackmailer.”

Draco simply blinked at her. “You found something. You found out who it is?”

“It wasn’t that hard … it only took me a couple of hours to verify it, but … here.” She held out the piece of parchment towards him and braced herself.

*~*

Draco stormed through the main doors of Gringotts not fifteen minutes later, Hermione’s careful research tucked under one arm. He cleared a path, other patrons moving quickly aside as he made his way towards the offices.

Theodore Nott’s office was open as he approached it, and with a slam, Draco shut it behind him.

“You had better hope that Granger was lying to me, Theo,” Draco said coldly.

“W-what?”

Draco pushed the bank statements across the desk and watched as Nott paled.

“Draco, you … well, you can’t possibly believe that I-I would—”

“Oh, but it makes far too much sense, doesn’t it? You’re the only one who knows about that flat. How easy it must’ve been to keep an eye on me while I was there. And you had the audacity to transfer the money to an account in your father’s name? Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Nott sighed, narrowing his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.

“You have to admit, though—it's taken you four months.” The change in his demeanor was alarming. His shoulders slumped in defeat, eyebrows tilted up, and Draco was reminded of a scolded child.

“Photos. Now.” Draco held out one hand, the other remaining close to his wand, just in case Nott needed extra incentive.

Opening a drawer, Nott pulled out a small bundle of pictures. As he flipped through them, Draco could see that most of them were similar to the first—with the pair of them standing outside the red door. Some were from Tate’s, but a fair few looked like they had been taken through windows.

In one, Hermione stood wrapped in a sheet, staring out the window with her arms around her waist. Another was simply the outline of two figures through a curtain. Without a second thought, Draco pulled out his wand and set the whole lot on fire.

Nott jumped back from his desk. “Fuck, Draco!” he shouted. “What the hell?”

“You’ve been blackmailing me, you arsehole,” Draco replied. One flick and the flames vanished. He moved his wand to point it at Nott’s face. “Do it again, and I won’t hesitate to make sure they won’t be able to identify your body.”

The other man simply nodded.

“I’ll be transferring my accounts to another manager, but to keep this situation from getting any more out of hand, I won’t report you. I encourage you to not view this as mercy.”

“Draco—"

“Stop!” he hissed. “I fucking trusted you, Theo. And this is how you repay me?”

“I … I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just sorry you got caught.” Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Just tell me one thing: why?”

Nott returned to his seat and pressed his fingers together. He seemed to be chewing through his words before he finally spoke. “Astoria came to me. Wanted to know what you had been up to. I didn’t tell her anything, but it got me curious, so I looked into it. She kept asking questions, though. She was worried that there was something wrong with her, that you didn’t love her anymore, so I kept her company.”

“Company?”

Nott raised an eyebrow at him, and Draco felt air rush out of his lungs.

“You’re sleeping with Astoria.”

As Nott nodded, Draco fled the office. He didn’t trust himself not to curse the man if he had to face him one moment longer.

*~*

When Draco didn’t show up for their meeting at Tate’s, Hermione began to worry. She hadn’t seen him since she approached him with her research four days prior, but that wasn’t abnormal.

She couldn’t get out of the meeting fast enough, bypassing invites from Emma for coffee and a conversation with Caroline in favor of dashing down the block to the red door.

Pressing the call button, she waited impatiently for Draco to answer. Relief flooded her when the door buzzed open, and she pushed through and up the stairs.

“Where’ve you been?” she called as soon as she crossed the threshold.

Draco sat in the middle of the couch, dressed in a wrinkled oxford and jeans. His hair hung loose around his face. One look around the room made Hermione’s eyes go wide. A trunk sat open next to the bed, robes hanging out, and a suitcase had taken up residence on the dining table. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the kitchen counter.

“Are you … are you  _living_  here?”

“Astoria’s been sleeping with Nott.”

She moved slowly through the flat until she was standing next to the couch. Reaching out, she hesitated. They had never had to deal with this sort of thing before. They were good at distracting one another, but comfort was far out of their reach. She had no idea what to do next.

“Do … do you want to talk about it?”

Draco scoffed.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She sat, close enough that they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee.

“So what do we do now?” she asked quietly.

Draco’s fingers slipped between hers, and he squeezed.

“I’ve no fucking clue.”

“One day at a time, okay?”

He turned his head as it rested on the back of the couch and granted her a tight smile.

“Okay, Granger.”

*~*

_Old Grudges Forgotten?_

_17 November 2022_

_By Betty Braithwaite_

_In a stunning turn of events, this reporter is pleased to announce the engagement of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. No details have been offered up by the happy couple, but turn to page 17 for pictures of the couple spotted around Muggle London._

_Three years have passed since their respective separations from their previous spouses, Ron Weasley and Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass._


End file.
